


mad love

by larvitar



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, how did i write this so fast, over the garden wall au, thank you céline sciamma for giving me all this newfound writing inspiration, the countess is mentioned but not by name so i didn’t tag her as a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24015499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvitar/pseuds/larvitar
Summary: Marianne had never expected any strangers in her home— much less a beautiful one.☆★☆héloïse/marianne, one-shot, au based on ep 5 of over the garden wall
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	mad love

**Author's Note:**

> this was a simple au i started writing based on the 5th episode of over the garden wall (because i think portrait and otgw have compatible vibes, especially with the 5th episode because PORTRAITS and BIG HOUSES and GHOSTS and such) and then it accidentally turned into a 4k+ word behemoth. oops! i would definitely recommend watching the episode before reading but you don’t necessarily have to in order to enjoy it. regardless i hope you guys like this i worked on it almost nonstop for the past two days LOL. comments & kudos appreciated!! cheers!!!

Marianne is acutely aware of the fact that the mansion she lives in that she’s inherited from her father is unbecomingly large. There’s so much space considering the fact that for a time, it was always just her father, her mother, and her. Then it became her father and her, and finally, it just became her.

She had learned to paint from her father in many of these rooms. She can walk in one of the rooms within the hallway of her bedroom and recall a different experience with this one. She opens the one diagonal from her bedroom and sees her father looking carefully at a fourteen year old Marianne’s canvas, flicking gently across it with her stick of charcoal in unsure, meticulously calculated movement. She sees her father whisper to her gently about carefully observing the features of the face, the cartilage of the ear, the curve of the lips, the arch of the eyebrows as the model, a local girl surely no older than twenty, sits silently on the stool almost dead center in the room.

Marianne opens the door of the room at the end of the hallway and sees an eight year old Marianne sitting down with her mother at the harpsichord. Her mother delicately presses the keys of the instrument, urging Marianne to follow with her stubby fingers, and she hears the room fill with the music from an orchestra they saw not all too long ago. She sees the door opens and her father enters, beaming with pride and joy as he lifts little Marianne up, her mother still playing as the three laugh.

She enters the door straight across from her and sees her father’s features riddled with pain. She sees him hold his breath as he runs a hand through his dark hair, short and curly as he reads over a piece of paper on his desk. A twelve year old Marianne stands expectantly at the doorway, blinking and wondering where _maman_ is, as she hadn’t returned from her excursion earlier today to fetch more wine for the cellar. She sees her father putting down the piece of paper and turning to Marianne in her adolescent naivety, and crouching down to hug her, his sudden affection communicating wordlessly what happened to her mother.

Yes, these halls are full of memories, both good and bad, no matter what room she turns into. However, Marianne has been encountering lately the fact that she has been often opening the doors to unfamiliar rooms.

The idea of Marianne not knowing every room in their sprawling property is a fallacy. Marianne knows every room of this house, from the most porcelain bathtubs (which she would often read in) to the emptiest spaces which contained little more than a bookshelf and a host of unfinished or empty canvases sprawled out on the floor or simply put into the armoire or wardrobe to hide their existence. (Marianne, as it were, had been struck with an awful artistic block, filling up rooms with half-finished works she couldn’t bring herself to complete.)

However, she had found herself entering room and after room that put a furrow in her brow and a wrinkle in her nose. No, this surely wasn’t here before, was it? Marianne never had the benefit of having a maid or nurse as a child, despite the mansion she lived in suggesting otherwise. That said, the fact that she was now in a maid’s quarters, quaint and unassuming except for a nice piece of embroidery of an arrangement of herbs, flowers, and other plants was completely bizarre.

Not only that, but the rooms she didn’t recognize that she discovered day and day again were not in the same style as the rest of the rooms in the manor. The new rooms she discovered were in a rich, ornate French Rococo style of architecture, which made no sense compared to the Georgian style she had familiarized herself with. Sure, it was a style that was very distinctly English, especially for a property smack-dab in the French countryside, but she digressed.

Marianne found herself investigating deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of a house, dedicating the hours to which she did not attempt her hand at painting or sketching (which was always an overwhelming disappointment) exploring the rooms she had apparently not been aware of. She even found a myriad of hidden passages from her rooms to the unfamiliar rooms, which puzzled her even further. What kind of inane entertainment would someone extract from building room upon room in her house? To watch her tunnel through it like a human rat? It was a quizzical situation through and through, one that often haunted Marianne late at night while she laid in bed in her nightgown, staring blankly at the ceiling.

One day during her search, however, she was blown away by a most interesting discovery. At the end of a hallway peppered with art, there was two large, ornately-decorated doors. Without even going inside, Marianne was sure that it was a bedroom. Pursuing the flame of her curiosity, she quietly made her way down the hall one evening, pushing open the doors gently.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the portrait of a woman hanging above the bed. The woman was in an emerald green dress, her hands tugging at a pearl bracelet. As Marianne looked up, however, she saw that the face of the woman had been smudged out, no evidence of any kind of features in return for a blend of the woman’s pale skin tone with the brown of the background. It was haunting, and also entirely perplexing; why would anyone have an unfinished piece of art, assumedly of themselves, hanging above their bed? Marianne couldn’t make sense of it.

Before she had more time to contemplate the reasons behind the portrait’s ruination, she heard a noise from behind her and the sight of a haunting shadow. It was fleeting, almost unnoticeable, and Marianne could’ve sworn she imagined it. Surely she must’ve, as there is no way another human being simply slipped past her like that. However, there was no imagining the way the curtains were gently pushed away by the gust of wind the person had generated.

Or maybe— here was a possibility that was perhaps reminiscent of Marianne going absolutely mad— it was a ghost. A haunting apparition, perhaps of her mother, or maybe even of her father, coming back to haunt Marianne for her lack of activity as of late. She couldn’t help it— she’d been wrought without a muse, without even a pinprick of inspiration or the desire to create. She couldn’t and refused to accept the commission offers that had once flooded in. It was simply too much to do for a woman living alone in a massive manor and attempting to deal with the death of her father. Her body still ached with grief at the thought of it, even. Perhaps it was entirely possible that there was a spirit, and was even more possible that it was of her father. Regardless, Marianne tried not to think about it.

The portrait Marianne had come upon in the empty bedroom, however, had struck her. She now felt the need to open box upon box of fresh canvas to sketch and draw and paint the woman she had seen looming over the canopy bed. Despite the fact that Marianne had not seen her in person, much less seen her _visage_ , she just had an itching to recreate her in any capacity. Marianne seethed in silent anger at whoever had decided to completely mar the artwork beyond recognition.

 _Très déprimé,_ Marianne thinks to herself, a stick of charcoal bobbing between her fingers as she continues to ponder ways to accurately recreate this young woman without having seen her. Before she can continue the thoughts of her racing mind, however, she hears a quiet rattling coming from somewhere. It sounds muffled, but it comes from somewhere within this room, so Marianne sets down her stick of charcoal and gets up from her stool to investigate. She carefully listens for any more of the stirring from around the room, and her ears are drawn to the polished oak of the armoire. Marianne, confused, opens the armoire and peers inside. Just a host of her father’s old coats. Marianne frowns. That doesn’t make any sense, she thinks, before she feels a wood panel lighter than the others on the back of the armoire. She gingerly pushes the panel back, to which it dislodges and there’s a beacon of light. Marianne hears the quiet rattling again, and with an unrelenting determination, she climbs into the armoire and goes through the small wooden panel.

As it happens, Marianne is barely able to crawl through the small passageway, but she ends up in a small corridor with a few short cobblestone steps. Frowning, Marianne walks down the steps, leading her to walk up to another small passageway, one that goes out the fireplace.

Marianne doesn’t climb through this one, however, instead opting to scope out her surroundings by peering through it. It’s a kitchen, and Marianne can see the dress of a maid walking around. This girl must be making dinner— but how did she get here without Marianne hiring her, and for _who?_

Before she can continue ruminating over how and why this maid got here, she foolishly exhales the breath she had been holding in. _Merde,_ Marianne thought sourly to herself. She was sure to be discovered by this poor maid, but at least perhaps she’d be able to get some insight on what was going on in her mansion.

She heard the maid put down her utensils before hearing the girl utter a hesitant “Hello?” The girl’s dress turned around, adding a “Who's there?” Marianne sighed. _It’s now or never,_ she thinks to herself, pushing the grate out of the way and hoisting herself through the small hole in the wall. Thankfully this fireplace had seemingly never been used.

Marianne stood up in the kitchen, dusting off her dress before offering a hand to the girl. “Marianne.” The maid stood frozen however, not budging from where she was, looking rather fearfully at Marianne and the hand she was offering. “How did you get here?” The girl questioned, staring intently into Marianne’s deep brown eyes.

Marianne chuckled and put down her hand. “I should ask you the same thing,” she quipped, her expression relaxing before putting her hands on her hips. The maid still looked scared and confused, however, the girl’s expression not softening at Marianne’s teasing.

“The lady of the house hired me,” she manages to get out. Marianne furrows her brow. Wait— the lady of the house? Marianne thinks back to the portrait hanging over the bed. Perhaps— were they the same person? Was this poor girl hired by a ghost, and both the two of them were being driven mad in this huge empty manor? Marianne looked down at the floor, trying to process it all before looking back up at the girl.

“Have you ever seen her?” Marianne asks. The girl shakes her head. “No, I haven’t. I simply make meals and clean and the lady goes about her business when she pleases. That is all I know.”

 _How curious,_ Marianne thinks to herself. A guarded woman who comes out so infrequently that the only maid she has is even unfamiliar with her appearance and has never gazed upon her before. Marianne thinks on this for a minute.

“What’s her name?” Marianne inquires.

“Héloïse,” the girl answers.

 _Héloïse,_ Marianne thinks to herself. _What a beautiful name._

☆★☆

Marianne comes to be well-acquainted with the maid, Sophie. As soon as she turned 18, her ailing mother encouraged her to find work for her own benefit. Sophie then took off from home, eventually finding work for an isolated woman in her countryside manor. Sophie had written to the woman after hearing of her offer requiring a maid, to which the woman wrote back and said she could start as soon as possible, giving her the address of the house and a substantial amount of francs to make the journey out to the property. 

Héloïse did not personally welcome Sophie to the house. Instead, there was only a letter listing her duties for the day and where her quarters would be. Sophie was instructed to never enter the lady’s bedroom except at the times of 12 to 1 p.m., the hour in which Héloïse took her daily walk. Sophie had also been instructed to leave dinner out and not to call Héloïse to it when it was prepared, as she would come fetch it herself when she felt ready to and that Sophie was dismissed to her quarters for the night after she had made supper. Marianne felt it peculiar this woman never wanted to be seen— more evidence of her being a spirit, perhaps?

Marianne enjoyed Sophie’s company, despite the fact that the reason she was here was not of Marianne’s own accord. The two still had dinner together nonetheless, basking in the company of another human being.

Sophie and her had refrained from mentioning the topic of Héloïse after their initial conversation discussing the circumstances in which Sophie came here on. They talked about literature, art, music, and the like, but never made any further reference of _the lady of the house_ , nor did either of them ask questions on how it could be that Marianne lived on this vast estate for her entire life and never noticed a woman moving in or how it could be that Sophie entered and went about her duties without noticing Marianne.

One day, however, Marianne had been tired of her silence regarding the subject and decided to bring it up during supper. “Who painted the portrait in the master bedroom?”

Sophie stilled. “ _Her_ room?” Marianne nodded wordlessly.

“I am not sure,” the girl answered honestly. “The existence of it has puzzled me for the longest time as well. I don’t understand the purpose of a portrait without a face.”

“Me neither,” Marianne said, shaking her head before adding, “Or why it would be hanging in her room.”

“Maybe she’s upset,” Sophie says. “Maybe the face is smudged out because she didn’t like the artist’s portrayal of her.”

Marianne tutted, looking down at her stew before matching Sophie’s gaze at her. “Or perhaps,” she starts, “She didn’t want anyone to look.”

☆★☆

Marianne’s attempts with recreating the portrait of the lady was fruitless. It almost became tiresome— here, Marianne was finally given inspiration, a _muse_ , and she couldn’t even get the woman’s hands down right. _Les mains_ , the nightmare of any artist. She sighed, reflecting on her countless sketches both on canvas and in her small field journal that seemed to produce nothing of worth. 

In all seriousness, though, what had she expected? Perhaps she could make a portrait of someone from an already existing one, but it would have to have presence. It would have to have spirit. It would have to have a _face_.

It had been an evening where Marianne was exploring the master bedroom when Héloïse was having supper. Or, _assumedly_ she was. It could be simply just an excuse for getting to wander the grounds, but since Sophie stayed in her quarters for the most part after supper, and Marianne never saw her, there was no way to tell. She closed up her journal dejectedly, as it was evident she could not do anything further with her recreation. Maybe she ought to quit art, and invest in the tea business instead. After all, there was a beautiful greenhouse in the middle of the mansion that hosted a number of interesting and foreign flora. Surely she could grow a host of intriguing plants to pluck leaves from and produce tea.

Just as Marianne was about to secure her grip on the gilded handle of the door and leave the master bedroom, she heard steps coming from the outside of the room. She instantly froze in place, taking a few steps back from the door. And then, after hearing the jiggling of the handle, it opened. 

A woman emerged, a blue hood over her face complimenting the darker blue of her dress. Marianne could see a few of the blonde wisps of her hair escaping from the hood, and her skin was awfully pale. Could she _really_ be a—

“Ghost?” Marianne sputtered thoughtlessly. It was her knee-jerk reaction to whoever entered, and she reprimanded herself for it.

“ _Quoi?_ ” The woman’s voice uttered, husky but still young. She closed the door behind her, looking at Marianne who was apprehensively standing near the wardrobe. It was then that the woman shed her hood to finally reveal her face.

Her mouth was set into a firm line, closer to a frown than a smile. Her bone structure was pronounced, as if she had been sculpted from marble. And her eyes, oh, _her eyes—_ they were the deep blue-green of an ocean wave, to which Marianne felt like the cliff they were crashing into with the woman’s gaze on her. The _face._ It was _her_ face. She was the lady in the portrait, she was the lady of the house, she was the one who hired Sophie, she was _Héloïse_.

“I’m not the ghost,” Héloïse started. “You’re the ghost who's been running around my corridors like a crazed child.” Her tone was sharp, yet not angry or upset. 

“ _Excusez-moi?_ You’re the one who appeared in my house without my knowledge and hired a maid,” Marianne fired back.

“ _Your_ house?”

At that moment, Sophie entered the room, a candle in her hand. “I know what happened,” she starts. Marianne figures the girl probably overheard their conversation. “Each of your manors are so big that they’re actually connected.” Marianne and Héloïse both looked bewildered at the girl, then switching their gaze to each other before Sophie continued. “By accident, I’m sure.”

Héloïse’s gaze remained on Marianne, and slowly, piece by piece, her face started softening, her lips curling into a smile. Marianne mirrored it, until eventually, the other girl burst out into laughter, Marianne following. The two women were just simply laughing, boisterously, about the ridiculousness of the current situation in the master bedroom. At last, the two’s laughter was absent as they calmed down and only had wicked grins on their faces. The room was absent of any noise for a bit until Sophie piped up from where she was standing in the doorway.

“Shall we speak about this over wine?”

☆★☆

The portrait of Héloïse that was hung above her bed in the master bedroom was a result of a painter visiting her in an attempt to paint her wedding portrait. He was very obviously unsuccessful, with the man throwing a fit after the last time Héloïse refused to cooperate, smudging out what little progress of her face he had and leaving in a huff. Her mother had been interested in finding another painter for her portrait in order to marry her off, but Héloïse vanished from their _château_ before her mother could even contact anyone. She disappeared to an old family home of her father’s that she would often go to with him as a child. Due to the fact her father had died several years back and had no siblings, it remained empty for several years. Héloïse whisked away to it, selling off some rather pricey objects she found to acquire some money in order to hide a maid, as well as building additional rooms that would eventually connect their two mansions. Héloïse was in the middle of telling her tale to Marianne and Sophie over wine, and Marianne was enraptured with the blonde woman— how she spoke with such eloquence and precision, the tug on the edges of her mouth when she was about to break out into a grin, the way she laughed as if nothing had ever been so funny in her life beforehand.

“I admit,” Héloïse had started, “I only sought for a maid because I had been so accustomed to having my every need catered to.” The three at the table laughed at this, both Héloïse and Marianne already having had a few glasses of wine. The light buzz Marianne felt was almost tranquil, in the way that she felt there were no social expectations preventing her from doing as she pleased.

Sophie yawned then, causing Héloïse’s attention to direct to the girl. “You should be getting to bed,” Héloïse says, stern. It wasn’t exactly a command, more so a strong suggestion. Sophie furrowed her brow and frowned. “But—“ Héloïse waved her concerns off with a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You’re young, you need your sleep.” Sophie only nodded, exiting out of the kitchen to her quarters.

With the newfound silence and the brazenness she was gifted by the alcohol, Marianne speaks.

“I’d like to paint you.”

Instantly, Marianne regrets it by the way Héloïse looks at her questioningly. She feels a fire burn across her face, up to her ears. Héloïse tilts her head.

“ _Pourquoi?”_

“You have brought me a great deal of inspiration and I wish to repay you for that by making a better portrait than the one that hangs above you at night.”

Héloïse tuts. “That can be arranged,” she says, softly. “That can be arranged.”

☆★☆

Arranged it was as an uncharacteristically still Héloïse sat in front of Marianne in her father’s old office. Marianne’s earlier musings were right; no portrait can compare to the real person. They’ve been progressing well, as Marianne is now beginning to paint bold strokes of that perfect green for her dress. That emerald dress that Héloïse still possesses, a remnant of her past life.

The painting goes by dully in the morning, the rest of the day being filled by their walks, the ones where they go down to the coast and stare at the sea moving and rippling as if it were human. Marianne enjoys them, and she enjoys spending time with Héloïse. The truth is that Marianne is completely and utterly enamored with her— embarrassing as that may be to admit.

The days almost pass by in a haze, as they play cards and discuss literature and the like. Marianne continues her painting with Héloïse’s assistance and collaboration. It’s a joy to work with her, it truly is, and Marianne would have nothing else.

“I should take the other one down,” Héloïse says one day after one of their sessions. Marianne tuts. “Maybe.” Before she knows it, though, Héloïse has disappeared to take down the other portrait from her room before Marianne can offer any sort of protest. Taking down the other one is a sort of symbolic gesture, Marianne realizes. One incredibly necessary for the blonde woman to completely separate herself from her previous life. Héloïse comes back into the room with the other portrait, a gleam in her eye as she poses a suggestion to Marianne.

“Let’s burn it.”

☆★☆

The two are on a hill not far from the property in the dead of night, Marianne carrying a candle to set it alight as Héloïse gathers firewood to have a proper burning. Héloïse finally returns with the last wave of wood, putting it around the painting and dusting her hands off on her dress, the blue one she wore around the house.

“Ready?” Marianne asks, turning her gaze to Héloïse. The blonde woman nods, to which Marianne grabs her candle and sets fire to the pile of wood along with the portrait. The pile erupts in a triumphant blaze, the fire soaring up into the sky as Héloïse whoops, elated. Marianne smiles at the sight, the fire burning steadily as the old portrait and its old memories burn away. The smell of the burning oil paints fills the air, tiny bits of ash emanating from the fire.

“It’s beautiful,” Héloïse says, smiling at the blaze that illuminated their faces as the crackling of the bonfire continued. The blonde woman takes a breath in, exhaling deeply as she looks at the dark sky being lit up by their fire.

Marianne smiles, looking at Héloïse’s raw joy as she watches the portrait burn. _Beautiful indeed,_ Marianne thinks to herself. _Beautiful indeed._

☆★☆

It isn’t until one day that she’s out walking with Héloïse that she feels like she _has_ to kiss her. Sure, Marianne had wanted to many times, but the feeling she had now was a feeling that she _had_ to follow. It wasn’t fleeting, only deep.

The two walk along the cliffs, the sea more alive today than it had been. The waves feel feverish as they push against the rock of the cliffs. It isn’t until the two women reach the end of the cliff that Héloïse speaks.

“The waves are restless today,” Héloïse comments.

“Maybe it’s a restless day.” Héloïse turns to her abruptly, a knot in her brow. Marianne instantly feels herself blush a little, and scolds herself internally for it. “Maybe the waves cannot resist the energy today is bringing to them.”

Marianne is looking directly at her, and her gaze flickers down to Héloïse’s lips before coming back up to her eyes. She sees Héloïse’s eyes unmistakably dart to her lips as well, before they share in a gaze together. An unspoken invitation.

Marianne can feel both of them moving forward until their lips collide fervently. Their lips have an equal amount of passion, and Héloïse’s mouth is soft and warm against hers. The two eventually pulled back, resting their heads together and panting.

“I’ve been waiting for that,” Héloïse added, still a bit out of breath. Marianne smiled. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were a ghost.”

“Aren’t you glad I wasn’t?” Héloïse says, a dumb grin on her face, which Marianne can’t help but mirror. “I’m very glad,” she says.

“So very glad.”

☆★☆

**Author's Note:**

> don’t ask me what tense this is in i couldn’t tell you. i’m not super satisfied w the ending but i rarely am LOL. anyway expect an update on i want war (but i need peace) relatively soon. i have lots of schoolwork due (i’m graduating high school babey) so it might be towards the later end of the week but it will come this week i promise you. however i hope you enjoyed this one-shot, it was super fun to write!!!!  
> ☆★☆  
> torture me on tumblr:  
> krookodyke.tumblr.com


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